one brutal thing after another
by julietbravo
Summary: These rich boys think they can get away with anything, don't they.


_i._

Weevil kind of starts hating Logan Echolls's guts after the very first time they meet.

Weevil's in the passenger seat of his tío Angel's Firebird, on their way to pick up his abuela from her new job cleaning the house of none other than Aaron Echolls, recent transplant to Neptune. At the time, Weevil is twelve years old - still Eli, in fact, not yet old enough to have gotten in with the PCHers and earned his moniker, still a little stocky with baby fat even though he's just hitting his growth spurt, and still young enough to be kind of secretly excited that his grandma's working for such a famous action hero. The 09er district is as creepy and too-immaculate as ever, and Angel makes a point of gunning the engine a little harder than necessary as he steers the car around the over-manicured curves of the streets.

"I think it's this one up here," Angel says as they come up on yet another indistinguishable McMansion, and Weevil is craning his head to try and see past the privacy hedge when Angel, in the process of whipping the car into a side driveway, slams on the brakes hard enough to almost send Weevil face first into the dash.

There's a kid standing frozen in front of the car: awkward, gangly, taller than Weevil but about the same age, definitely too young for the designer jeans and ninety dollar highlight job he's sporting. The surprise wears off quickly, turns into a sneer, and the kid bangs the side of his fist against the front grill.

"Watch where you're going, Paco," he calls out, voice muffled by the glass of the windows but audible enough, and Weevil feels his hackles rise.

"Paco?" he repeats, starts to clamber out of the car but is stopped by Angel's hand on his chest, Angel rolling his eyes.

"Chill, Eli, Jesus." The kid watches the exchange with his mouth screwed up in amusement, then taps two fingers against the hood of the car like a salute before turning around and disappearing into the house out of which Weevil's grandma is just emerging.

"Logan Echolls, sí," his grandma confirms later that evening over dinner. "He's going to be a terror, I think. You can tell. What can you expect, though, growing up with money like that. Can't turn out normal."

When seventh grade starts a few weeks later, Weevil recognizes Logan in some of his classes, but the recognition doesn't seem mutual, and he sees no reason to bring up the connection, especially not in front of Felix and Hector and everybody else. It doesn't take long for Echolls to develop his reputation at Neptune Middle: loudmouth, troublemaker, smartass. Weevil mentally adds "over-entitled prick" to the list of doesn't think about it again until almost a month later until his grandma slants him a sideways sort of look over the top of the dishes she's washing and asks, "Eli, sweetheart, you go to school with the Echolls boy, yes?"

It's morning before school, and Weevil is sitting at the kitchen table shovelling Fruit Loops into his face and kind of half-heartedly watching cartoons, and at first he is nothing but vaguely annoyed at having his morning routine interrupted by thoughts of Logan Echolls. He shrugs a little, lets a spoonful of cereal drop back into the bowl. "Yeah, I guess so. How come?"

His grandmother shakes the water off a pan, slots it into the drying rack, still doesn't look at Weevil. "He's sort of a wild one, sí? Gets into a lot of fights?"

Weevil has no idea if Echolls gets into a lot of fights, but it doesn't strike him as particularly untrue, so he shrugs again. "Maybe, I guess. Sure."

Now his grandmother turns around, gives him an appraising sort of look that makes him want to fidget. "You're not friends with him, then?"

"What?" Weevil is taken aback. "No. No, not friends. He's kind of a prick, grandma."

"Eli!" His grandmother leans across the gap between the sink and the table to swat him lightly on the back of the head, her expression crumpling into a scowl. "Don't you use language like that in this house, boy. And I don't want to hear you saying things like that about people. I raised you to be kind, you hear me?"

"All right, fine, I'm sorry." Weevil kind of wants to defend himself, remind her that not so long ago she herself was categorizing Logan Echolls as a terror, but she seems genuinely upset by the whole exchange, so he bites his tongue, decides to let it go.

He doesn't do a very good job.

Thing is, the conversation with his abuela keeps sticking in his twelve-year-old skull. Something about her tone, forced composure over worry. The sort of voice adults use when they're talking to you about something really fucked up, but don't want you to know how fucked up, like when they're trying to hint maybe your mom isn't coming home this time, maybe you're better off not knowing who your father is. So he kind of watches Echolls out of the corner of his eye, wonders what the fuck, until finally one of Echolls's cronies catches him at it.

They're at lunch. Hector's telling some long-ass story, and Weevil is half-listening, half-casting occasional glances at Echolls over his tater tots, when some vacant-eyed surfer type elbows Echolls in the ribs, and says loud enough to be heard three tables over, "Yo, Logan, that Mexican kid keeps staring at you. Think he's got a crush?"

Weevil can feel himself flushing deep crimson, but before he can do anything stupid, Bootsy's got it covered, is on his feet, puffing out his chest at the 09er table. "Oh, you just wish, white boy," he hollers, giving Weevil time to regain his composure while the rest of the table erupts into laughter. Weevil manages to play it cool, just snorts and shakes his head like the whole thing isn't worth his time. But Echolls isn't going to let it go so easily.

"Nah, Dick, no worries," he says. Now Echolls is staring at Weevil, and Weevil, against his better judgment, becomes locked into eye contact. "That's Eli Navarro. You know our housekeeper, Letty? That's his grandma. Eli here's probably just waiting for us to finish our lunch so he can carry on the family tradition, clean up after us." For a moment Weevil is rendered speechless, just stares at Echolls in dumb fury. But then the little fuck winks, actually fucking winks, and before he can think better of it Weevil is launching himself across the tables, tackling Echolls onto the floor, and rational thought disappears into a flurry of fists.

It devolves into an all-out brawl, both zip codes in one jumbled heap, but later Weevil is the only one sitting in the office, bruised and bloodied to all hell and waiting for his grandma to come pick him up for his suspension. He's still seething from the brutal unfairness of it all, practically vibrating, curling and flexing his knuckles and wishing, just wishing for another chance to finish pummeling the smug asshole's face in. But when his abuela shows up she looks so goddamn broken hearted that he feels the anger just drain away, feels himself turn into a shamefaced little boy, kicking at the floor.

"I'm so disappointed in you, hijo," she says, and all he can do is grimace against a mouthful of bruised gums and let her lead him home.

Six months later, Weevil gets in with the PCHers, and within a year he's landed himself in juvie for the first time, so suffice it to say he's got bigger things to worry about than some smart-mouthed preppy boy from the 09. It seeps into the background, fades away, until years later when he's sucked into the bright and brittle world of Lilly Kane.

_interlude (for lilly)._

She comes on to him first.

He has to remind himself of it, sometimes, later, because it seems so improbable, like a fucked up dream. He's in the school parking lot, late, detention or something, he can't remember. Making his way to his bike, and there she is out of nowhere like a goddamned apparition, short shorts and a mouth sticky with lipgloss.

"Eli, right?" she asks, tosses her hair over her shoulders, tilts her hips to the side. It's obvious, obvious what she's all about and his mind is racing, equals parts what the fuck and fuck, yes.

"Lilly Kane," he replies, pleased with how smooth his voice comes out sounding. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Is this your bike?" She wraps her fingers around the handlebars, all cooing and wide-eyed, but there's a smirk just twitching at the corners of her mouth. He doesn't care, or likes her better for it; it's hard to tell. "I've never ridden on a motorcycle before."

It's too easy, just like she intends it to be. Next thing he knows she's all soft curves pressed against him, arms hugging his torso, and he's about to start his bike when his mouth overtakes his brain and he hears himself asking, "So, hold on a minute here. Aren't you dating that Echolls punk?"

She laughs. It's a throatier sound than he would have expected. "God, I mean, not like at this exact moment, right? Hey, can I see where you live?"

It's all the invitation he needs.

What he doesn't plan for is falling fucking head over heels for the girl, for being absolutely and completely wrecked when she goes back to Logan, inevitably, repeatedly. He's a sucker, always thinks this time will be different, and then the same scene plays out. Lilly, shamelessly unclothed in the unmade nest of his bed, golden and glowing in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, says, out of nowhere, "So Logan and I are back together. I won't be able to see you as much," and everything shatters.

The third or fourth time it happens, Weevil has to squeeze his eyes shut against the bright burst of hate that flares for Logan fucking Echolls, tries to compose himself. It doesn't work. Lilly's fingertips are trailing along his jawline, and he reaches up to throw her hands off him. She tumbles away in a tangle of limbs and laughter, so amused, so unfazed, and it's all he can do to keep his voice steady.

"Goddammit, Lilly, you promised, you fucking promised this time-"

"God, Eli, honestly." She cuts him off by repositioning herself in his lap, smoothing her hands up and down his biceps. "You know it doesn't have anything to do with you. It's just," she waves a hand airily, "this thing, me and Logan, it always has been." She looks up at him with limpid eyes, then ducks her face into the curve of his neck, laves the tip of her tongue along the sinews there. "I wish you boys could just... get along," she breathes, teeth and tongue into the space behind his jawbone, and he feels his heart thudding in his chest.

"God dammit, Lilly," he gets out, but it sounds strangled.

"Oh, come on," she coos, dipping her fingers into his waistband. "If you two could just learn to share, think how much fun we could have. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it. Don't you think Logan's pretty, just a little bit?" He starts to growl in protest, deep in his throat, but she sucks on a pressure point in his neck and he finds himself rendered speechless again. "-that's what I thought. God, the two of you together would be so. Hot. He'd take good care of you, too. He does this thing-" Weevil should be shoving her out of the bed, telling her that's enough, get the fuck out, but his head is swimming and all of a sudden she ducks her head and her mouth is on him and the only thing Weevil can do it sit back and think what the fuck is this girl doing to me.

The next day at school Weevil walks by just as Lilly is shoving Logan up against a bank of lockers, hands fisted in his shirt, lips crashing against his in a violent kiss. Her eyes are closed, lost in the moment, but for one split second Weevil catches Logan's gaze. It's accidental, awkward, yet Logan doesn't break it, just smirks against Lilly's lips and Weevil has to rush for the bathroom, crank open the taps full force and desperately splash cold water over his face. "That's some bullshit right there, Lilly," he mutters to himself, catches a glimpse of his reflection, still fucking flushed as hell and dripping water, and can't help but think, props.

_ii._

Lilly gets killed, and Weevil has to find out from the motherfucking news. (Of course he does, who the fuck would know to call him?) He manages to make his way back home before he starts throwing up, sobbing, a fucking wreck of a human being in a puddle on the bathroom floor. His abuela was always sort of back and forth about Lilly: didn't approve of the cheating, thought she would break Weevil's heart, too, but Lilly was such a goddamn relentless charmer that she eventually wore Letty down, evoked grudging smiles with her effusive greetings and compliments. So his abuela covers for him for a few days while he's trying to put himself back together, tells Hector and Felix and everyone he's sick when they come pounding on the door, makes him eat sometimes, rubs gentle circles between his shoulder blades.

It is a goddamn haze of a year. The PCHers are already on the verge of combustion after Gustavio Toomb's death, and when Weevil takes over he turns them into the fucking horsemen of the apocalypse. Sometimes he thinks he'll never be sober again, sometimes he wonders if all the cracked bones and bruised flesh will ever heal when he keeps ripping his own wounds open over and over again. He rides his bike too fast and too buzzed, avoids going home because he can't stand to see the devastation in his abuela's face, goes to the cemetery instead - brings bottles of tequila and upends whatever he can't manage to drink onto the still-fresh earth of Lilly's grave. He stays all night, feels like he's daring one of the Kanes to show up and catch him there. They never do.

In some corner of his awareness he watches the 09ers doing the exact same goddamn thing. He knows their already legendary parties are becoming even more hedonistic; the PCHers break up some of them just because and it's like nobody even cares, they all scream at each other and punches are thrown and Weevil smashes bottles into bonfires and yanks solo cups out of the hands of terrified freshman girls and then they all go home and do it again next week. Weevil sees Duncan Kane fade to transparency, sees Veronica Mars show up to school all hacked to bits and sewn back together. Logan Echolls is out of school for a month after Lilly dies, longer than even Duncan. Echolls has been absolved of all connection to Lilly's murder but Weevil can't help but project some of the blame on him anyway, and when he finally starts showing up to school again, with red-rimmed eyes and constantly reeking of alcohol, Weevil savors the miserable twist in his own gut.

_iii._

The day after Aaron Echolls gets himself shanked by the waitstaff, Weevil finds himself slowly navigating his bike up and down the streets of the 09 with the Faberge egg weighing heavy in the pocket of his jacket, trying really hard not to examine his reasons for deciding it's necessary to come here, now, to return the damn thing in person. There's probably nobody home, anyway, he thinks as he idles his bike near the ridiculous gate that marks the front of the Echolls's property. Probably everyone is still at the hospital, and he's about to turn his bike around and head home when he feels his cellphone vibrate in the inside pocket of his jacket.

Weevil doesn't recognize the number, answers against his better judgment. Of course, it's Echolls. "What is this shit, like, the biker equivalent of standing sweaty-palmed on my front porch before a date?" The edges of Echolls's voice have the soft slur of alcohol. Before Weevil can ask him what he's talking about, Echolls continues, "Look, I can hear your cholo-mobile from fucking three blocks away, and so can everybody else in the damn neighborhood. Get your ass inside before you bring the property values down any further." The connection terminates. Weevil stares at the cell phone's screen for a minute, then snorts and makes his way to the pool house.

Echolls is slumped on the couch, mashing buttons on an Xbox controller with vicious disinterest. The pool house is still littered with the assorted Christmas party and poker game refuse: crumpled beer cans, far-flung strands of tinsel, cardboard reindeer. It's a fucking pathetic sight, made worse by the half-empty fifth of vodka tucked into the couch cushions alongside Echolls. Weevil rolls his eyes, fishes the egg out of his pocket and lobs it gently towards the couch. It lands on Echolls's lap, and he picks it up with one hand, turns it side to side, then quirks an eyebrow at Weevil. "Figured I ought to get that back to you," says Weevil, like it's an explanation. Echolls snorts, but nods. He tosses the egg to one side and retrieves the bottle of vodka, extending it to Weevil even as his attention is returning to the game.

Weevil stands there, chewing on the inside of his lip for just a second before letting himself flop down beside Echolls, accepting the vodka and taking a deep swig of it. He clears his throat against the burn, hands the bottle back to Echolls, and says before he can think better of it, "Yo, so, I'm sorry about your old man."

Echolls is halfway into his own mouthful of alcohol, and he chokes on it, spluttering all over himself, half laughing, half coughing. "Are you fucking serious?" he manages to get out, takes a few gasping seconds to regain his composure. "You came over her to offer your fucking condolences?" He spits out the word like it's got a foul taste. "Well, don't you fucking worry. Daddy dearest is going to be just goddamn fine, more's the pity, so you can leave your fucking casserole by the door and show yourself out." He reaches to pick up the damn video game controller again, and Weevil, furious and unsure why, knocks it out of his hands with a clatter. Logan looks shell-shocked, and Weevil gets up in his face before he can collect himself.

"You know what, Echolls? Fuck you. You've always got to be such a goddamn smartass. I come over here, trying to- trying-" And here his tirade dries up, because let's be serious, he has no clue whatsoever what he's trying to do.

Logan laughs in Weevil's face, breath cloying sweet with the reek of vodka. "Trying to what, Weevil? Trying to be nice, is that what you were gonna say?" His eyes are bright, glittering with something dangerous. "Do I look even a little bit like what I need is somebody to be nice to me right now?" he asks.

"Echolls-" Weevil begins. He is unsure of himself, which he fucking hates, but before he can dwell on it too long Echolls has bridged the minuscule gap between them and is fucking kissing him, mouth open, messy, hot, desperate, and Weevil finds himself kissing Echolls back. He doesn't know why. Some fucking primal instinct, who the fuck knows, but he seals his mouth over Echolls's and for a minute it is all teeth and tongues until they both start to run out of oxygen, and it is Echolls who finally breaks the kiss, sits back with a little gasp.

Weevil punches him in the face.

It's not a hard punch, but it connects squarely with the side of Echolls's jaw, knocks his head to the side. Echolls slumps into the hit like he's expecting it, works his jaw back and forth and stares at Weevil with something indefinable, fucking amused and hurt little boy all at the same time. Weevil's still buzzing with adrenaline and something like fury; he feels it spike and flexes his knuckles against the urge to punch Echolls again. "You know what I think, Echolls?" he hears himself saying instead, can't stop himself even though maybe later he'll wish he had. "I think what you need more than anything in the goddamn world is for someone to be nice to you. But fuck if it's gonna be me."

The amusement starts to crumble off of Echolls's face. Weevil shoves his way off the couch before he can see it go completely, out of the poolhouse, off the goddamn Echolls property. His bike is still waiting by the side of the road. He throws himself over it, leans into the warm familiarity of the engine rumbling, and escapes into the cool clear California air.


End file.
